#Wharf Me Worry?

[laz-kay]

“I’m not always worried about the future, and that’s because of my grandkids. They might actually figure stuff out, and - y’know - Fix stuff”.

Bob's Burgers, Wharf, Me Worry? (S14: E8)

[movies-tv-more]

BOB'S BURGERS 14x08 "Wharf, Me Worry?" airs tonight at 9pm on FOX

[yahoo201027]

Screencaps for the upcoming episode of Bob’s Burgers, "Wharf, Me Worry?", premieres Sunday, November 26 at 9:00pm EST/8:00pm CST on FOX.

[eroticfriendfictions]

I really enjoyed Wharf Me Worry? episode. More than I thought I would. Would you say Pop Pop’s relationship with Bob got better or just the same?

I mean, it's better than it was in the early seasons.

[red-pencil]

This #AniMonday I present Clamstrodamus. The pinnacle of animation!

Actually, we were having trouble coming up with a formula for how Clamstrodamus would move, but they ended up liking my pitch, so I made this tutorial for the crew.

[br1ghtestlight]

How's it going? What are you guys talking about? Hello? Hello???

[moonstruckme]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeSt5hWJ/

this but with bestfriend james please i beg of you 🫡

No begging necessary ml <3

bestfriend!James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 659 words

“Oh my god,” you grunt, trying to shift James off of you, “you weigh more than a truck.” 

“It’s all muscle, I’ll have you know.” He grins, brown coils falling down over his forehead. “Or it was, until the donuts you coerced me into.” 

Coerced is an interesting term for it. You’d only pointed out the donut shop during your walk to the gym, and James had immediately detoured inside and wharfed down three bear claws blaming you all the while. 

You strain a bit more to try and turn yourself over. James’ hand is warm and familiar on your thigh, and he’s kindly keeping it where you’ve got it pinned instead of trying to struggle like he’s supposed to. 

“I don’t know if I can flip you,” you say. “You’re too heavy.” 

“Well, there’s not much point in doing this if I help you,” he points out. “You’ve got it, love. Focus on using your core.” 

You huff frustratedly, but tighten the muscles in your abdomen. James’ hold on your legs tightens too, and slowly, you roll him over onto his back, your legs straddling his waist. 

“Alright!” You beam, thrilled with yourself. “That was fairly smooth, wasn’t it?” 

James grins at you. “Not bad,” he agrees. “Now we’ve just got to work on getting it the first try.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” You roll your eyes, too happy with your success to think of future improvements just yet. 

Some of James’ curls have become trapped beneath him by your maneuvering, and you bring your hands to his head, lifting it to free them. You press one palm tenderly to his scalp. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I? When I rolled…” James takes both your wrists in his hands, and you narrow your eyes at him warily. He looks smug. 

“My head is fine, but you won’t be if you let people out of your hold this easily.” He makes a disappointed tsking sound. “You’re supposed to hit me in the face or something, not play with my hair.” 

“I thought we were done,” you say. 

James only extends his arms above his head. Your hands go along with them, and you follow like a puppet, stretching over his torso. 

“Is that what you plan to tell your mugger?” he asks jovially. He’s so close you can feel his breath hitting your chin. You hope you drip sweat onto his face. “You think you can just flip him over and then he’ll forfeit and leave you be?” 

You laugh, trying to pull your wrists from his hold. It only serves to get you closer to him, your body all but collapsing on top of his as you squirm. James dips his head to blow a raspberry onto the spot on your neck where he knows you’re ticklish, laughing when you shriek. 

He finally lets you go. Your hands go to his chest and his to your waist, helping you up when your body is still limp and useless for giggling. You won’t let yourself glance around to see what sort of looks you’re getting after that ear-shattering screech, but you’re sure the heat emanating from your face says enough of your embarrassment. 

“I might actually hit you in the face now,” you threaten. James doesn’t even have the decency to look the least bit worried. 

“Right.” In one easy movement, he’s flipped you over again. You spit a bit of hair out of your mouth as he smiles down at you, the sleeves of his dark shirt tight around his biceps and a light sheen of sweat shining on his face. You can tell from the way his thighs are straining that he’s working to keep from sitting on you with his full weight, but his hips still feel warm and solid on top of yours, and it’s making you think of things you’d better not. He claps a big hand on your hip encouragingly. “Okay, let’s try that again.”

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yandere(?) Jing Yuan

MY HUSBAND ✨

A little warning though. I quit playing HSR after 2.something. I don't remember. But it's because my devices can't handle it anymore :( at least I got Jing Yuan before I deleted the game. So I am probably going to put some wrong information here. Especially the timeline. Forgive me! Also,I lied. I'm not making this fic NSFW. Have some not so good angst LMAO Of course, there's spoilers so... Spoiler alert! Notes: Highly OOC Jing Yuan. He's a lonely man fr fr. Also, an extra long fic as an apology for disappearing like that lol. Also, not even sure if this counts as yandere. But just to be safe, i'm putting it here. So, dead dove, do not eat.

Being a long time trailblazer from the Astral Express made you develop quite the wanderlust in you.

You were originally from Xianzhou. A spoiled kid of a rich family that decided to embrace the free life when the Astral Express first visited your planet.

You developed a strong friendship with Himeko and Welt, alongside treating Dan Heng and March as your little siblings/children.

When Stelle arrived in the Astral Express, it seems that your little family is complete. Sure, Stelle may be a little gremlin with a Stellaron inside, but hey. Family is family.

When the talks of going to Xianzhou appeared, you volunteered to guide Stelle and March around alongside Welt. You did miss your family, and wanted to prove that you weren't the same immature person before.

Well, you know what happened next.

The wharf being abandoned, littered with mara struck soldiers...

It seems that Xianzhou became worse for wear.

Fearing for the worst, you urged the three to follow you and defeated the Mara stricken soldiers in such precision.

Seriously. You follow Nihility since you want to be more laid back in your life. But why does life keep forcing lemons down your throat? Now, it's even your family being dragged in your bad luck!

You got dragged by the three around until you all got to the square, and immediately bade goodbye for the time being. Promising to help them as soon as they need to. For now, you need to get back to your family.

Once you got to the manor, you burst through the door and was immediately smacked to shit by your parents.

"YOU PRODIGAL CHILD! NOW YOU COME BACK HOME?! HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE..."

A nagfest, you took in their worry filled words with a sharp edge before calming them down. You asked if any in your family have been mara stricken, but all of them shook their head thankfully enough.

Then, you noticed a man by the tea room. It seems that your parents forgot etiquette and abandoned their guest.

"AH! Forgive us, General! It's just this child... Oooh this child!"

You took a peak and was stunned.

Jing Yuan. The guy whose family is from the Realm-Keeping Commissions? And he's the general now? That's...

"You remember Yuan-yuan, right? Y/N'er?"

Oh you remember alright. How can you not? You loved this man a lot.

You squirmed under Jing Yuan's golden gaze that's filled with an unreadable emotion that you're sure had to do with your past.

And the past is what he desperately holds onto up to this day...

"General! The astral express--"

Jing Yuan's usual relaxed demeanor stiffened, his eyes going rigid. If one looks close, the chess piece he's holding onto cracked, making it glitch.

His face softener a bit as to not scare Yanqing more who stepped back a bit.

"Is that so? Thank you for the information, Yanqing. You can go rest now."

The kid nodded before walking away and leaving Jing Yuan alone.

His world, once so bleak and dry, suddenly had a drop of rain that he once missed and took advantage of, thinking it won't go away.

"Y/N..." He whispered to himself, putting down the piece and washing his face with his palm.

Other than Jing Liu and the others, you were one of the few people he's close to. Ever since you both were in the academy, you've always didn't like his quite stubborn nature. He didn't like his academic strand, wanting to be a cloud knight.

He noticed you pulling a face whenever he cuts classes, sleeps, loafs around... Sure, you were spoiled to bits, but at least you have the decency to be good in school.

So, he made it a point to annoy you greatly. Always popping around the block wherever you were, following you while talking your ear off... Doesn't help that he's a classmate, it's a daily annoyance that you gradually welcomed over time.

It's a friendship born from being together all the time. You watch him train with Jing Liu, taught him stuff he didn't understand, and in return, he would teach you how to fend for yourself since you always told him you wanted to travel the galaxy.

And that friendship developed into something more intimate. Exchanging shy giggles, flirty whispers, firsts of everything... Even without a label other than lovers, you both knew that you two are destined and tied together. Soulmates, if you will.

He's happy that you were by his side. With the quintet and you, how much more happiness does he need in his life?

But sometimes, so much happiness meant that there will be a terrible thing happening the next day.

Fortunately for you, you left Xianzhou before the Baiheng incident in the process of saving the Xianzhou Yuque. It was a timely flight that Jing Yuan supported so that you will be safe from the chaos that will unfold.

Unfortunately for Jing Yuan though, he paid the price of seeing his friends fall one by one.

Baifeng, sacrificing herself when fighting Shuhu, Dan Feng creating a draconic abomination in the process of trying to ressurect Baifeng and solving the Vidyadhara reproduction problem, Yingxing being backfired and becoming immortal stricken with mara, and JIng Liu, also struck with mara.

He watches as his beloved quintet crumble to dust in such a short time, even defeating his own beloved master in order to save so many lives and bring justice to those lost.

Jing Yuan had no one. No one to turn to, no one to confide in.

In times like those, what he yearned is you. For you to return, for you to look at him with so much grief, concern, and care.

All he wanted is your hug, your reassurance that it wasn't his fault, and it wasn't his burden to carry.

But you didn't return. Not even a peep, not even a soul.

700 long years of waiting, of bottling up his emotions that it almost spilt over.

Sure, he's happier now, but is he truly happy?

Deep inside, he kind of resented you for being so blissfully unaware of what happened to him. Of what happened to the quintet. You never even contacted him in those 700 years. Did you just forget your relationship just like that? Did you move on from him? He thought both of you were together forever?

Then slowly, he got jealous. Of you, at first. Just travelling across the galaxies without a worry in the world. How selfish of you to just run off to the farflungs of the universe just to never contact him again. Shame on you. He's a worried lover! How can he not? Then, he got jealous of the people that you must have met. How much were they charming you that you forgot about him, your soulmate?

He started visiting your family in year 300 too. Consoling them and telling that you were gonna go back home. When? Soon. Like really soon.

He found solace in your family that started treating him as their own son. Taking care of him when he visits, entertaining him with a game of chess, maybe even talk about their life.

He also heard more stories about you. About your spoiled attitude outside of school, of your rebellious years, of your wants and needs to see the outside. It's as if he's living vicariously through your parents, and relieving your memories in order to not forget you.

Then, he starts yearning for your presence once more after just trying to forget you.

It's a never ending addictive cycle that he's lost in the deep trenches in.

You were the only constant in this godforsaken world, the wine he yearns to drown himself in in order to forget his problems. But his problem is the wine, his problem is you. But the alcoholic he is, he continue to guzzle down the addictive taste until reality blurs with fantasy. In which a picture perfect world existed were nothing went wrong, and you were still there back in his arms.

Over the years, he somehow got over it. Turned to tea, thought about stuff. But your family reminded him so much of you and told so much stories of you that he became so attached to the idea of you.

He started a little hobby of writing letters to your non-existent being. Thinking you'll read them in the future. He refuses to believe that you're dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere. He knows that you're alive. He knows it.

He wrote down what he wishes to tell you, on what he wanted to do with you once you come back like a little drink, maybe even roam around and show you what Xianzhou looks like after 700 years.

Then, it devolved into his frustrations, anger, jealousy, and grief about what happened in those measly years. On why he wanted to have you so bad with him, to have the only remaining friend with him by his side. He wants to cling to you, to finally have a full on restful sleep, but also yell at you for leaving him behind.

He thought of the people that made you forget him. Of the people that took you away from him. Yes, they may, no, they ARE the reason why you weren't returning home. They must be.

He knows he's wrong. And he's working on it. A few letters down the road had him apologizing, telling he's in the wrong, and started writing about what to do once you come back.

Until those letters carried a weight that he's thinking of.

What will happen if you decided to stay in Xianzhou this time?

What will happen if something or someone made you stay?

What if, Jing Yuan forced you stay?

An absurd idea, but those letters quickly became a drawn out plan on what he'll do to make you stay by him, by his side. Eternally until the end of both of your lifespans.

And those letters were now safely kept in his hand. They will not see the light of the day.

The time he knew that the Astral Express came to their wharf, with Yanqing telling him, he immediately ran to Fu Xuan to know who are the passengers of the train that stepped out to help.

And there you are. You chose the path of Nihility. Fitting for a person like you who wished for everything, yet nothing. A spoiled kid who only wanted meaningless vices and thrills to fill the void inside. You grew up so much just as him.

What is this feeling inside? Relief? Resentment? Guilt? Love?

Woah, love? Really? Does he really still feel love for you? Or is that just a byproduct of the putrid mix of emotions inside of him?

He always knew his feelings for you never disappeared. It was supposed to be just a harmless puppy love that is forgotten over time. Like come on, it's been seven centuries.

But seeing you there, with your mother still nagging you, and your eyes locked onto him with an excited, naive look on your face made those forgotten emotions resurface.

And unfortunately, became an unfortunate ingredient in the rancid pot of emotions he bottled up over the years.

The General, known for being laid back and relaxed, can feel that image slowly crack and crumble every step you take towards him with a smile on your face.

It's so painful. How can you have that sweet smile on your face while he had to endure so much guilt and pain that he doesn't deserve to undergo?

What's worse is that your smile was lifting so much off of his shoulders to the point that he wants to drag those problems back to his shoulders and stubbornly hold onto them just to prove you a point.

He can't believe you had so much power over him. It's driving him insane how your mere presence shook the centuries worth of healing that he did for himself.

The conflicting thoughts started to whirl in his head.

He wants you to stay, but he wants you to disappear now that you're actually here.

In those mere seconds, he composed himself and gave you a soft smile. A smile that usually had a lazy quality in them now looks rigid.

"Y/N, my love. How are you? It's been seven centuries!" Calm and composed. That's what he wishes his voice sounds like.

You, sweet, oblivious you, hugged him with such a smile on your face. After all, Jing Yuan was your lover. And you hoped that he didn't hate you that much from not communicating.

"Yuan! I'm so glad I met you here again! Wow... You're a general now! How cool is that?!"

Your excited voice grated his ears to the point that he wants to cover it vehemently, but he also wants to get a hold of it and hear it over and over again. Reassuring himself that you're actually here in the flesh with him and not just a figment of his fractured reality.

With a smile, you grabbed his hand and got out of your parents' manor, wanting to apologize to Yuan by catching up.

Are you really that insensitive? Such naive thinking that by only talking things out, the problem will be resolved. Well, in your defense, you didn't know what happened with JIng Yuan and the quintet. All you knew is that they grew apart from the looks of it.

You didn't undergo the same traumatic experience that Jing Yuan did, the agonizing isolation, the years of waiting for that somebody to come home, and your mental health devolving into something more sinister, something that crosses with your logic multiple times.

But here you are, flashing your carefree smile at the dying Jing Yuan who squeezed out a chuckle.

He wishes that you burn in hell. He wishes that HE burns in hell. He wishes to burn with you, spending the last agonizing minutes with you finally in his arms again.

He grasps your hand, wrestling out an apology in his mind to you.

But he can't let you go until you knew of the agony you left him with.

And that's going to take a lifetime with you by his side, shackled and ruined.

It has been a whirlwind of emotions.

You saw Dan Heng, turn into your old friend Dan Feng. Well, his visage anyways. Were you that blind to not see the similarities? Or were you blocking the image out of your mind in order to protect your own peace?

And Yingxing, no, Blade. When did he turn into this immortal, suicidal maniac who wishes for nothing but death for himself and revenge?

And it's Dan Feng's fault? Dan Feng would never!

Your image of Dan Heng/Feng started to mix, making you dizzy and confused.

Baiheng. She died? Did she really? So did Dan Feng's ritual work or not? Did she reincarnate? Is she somewhere out there?

What happened in those years?!

And Jing Liu... Jing Yuan's master. Mara stricken and committed a massacre. That Jing Liu?

Jing Yuan even defeated her himself... Oh gods, did he just carry that burden all by himself? All those years... Centuries of pain and suffering that he didn't deserve.

The carnage, the aftermath, the result of grieving.

It's almost too much to bear for you.

And you were just out in the world, travelling and being all wishy washy, enjoying yourself with your newfound friends?

For gods sake, you were Jing Yuan's lover! Did you just forget about him just like that? Then those promises. Were those fake and surface level?!

How about your old friends? Did you even consider them? In those seven centuries, did you not even think of them?

Of course you did! But you swore that you thought that they're going to do fine!

Guilt riddled your weary body. Exhaustion catching up to you as you wept in your room.

So much to process, so much to grieve. It was almost too much if it weren't for Jing Yuan there to comfort you. Telling you that it was okay, that it wasn't your fault.

But what if's kept popping up your mind. What if you returned earlier? What if you were there for Jing Yuan? What if you didn't actually leave?

And Jing Yuan was so nice throughout the whole thing. You only talked to Dan Heng for a little while, but you need more time.

You felt so selfish for being like this. Why are you so affected when you weren't even there?

That's it. You weren't there. You weren't there for your friends, for Jing Yuan who only has you.

Seven centuries of loneliness... How did he even endure it?

You wanted to share the burden so bad, to be with him and atone for those time lost. You want to be there for him.

You are a terrible lover. A terrible friend, and a terrible person. Those phrases continued to mingle in your mind and wore you down to your barebones.

Now, even a sneeze from Jing Yuan warrants you to panic.

And Jing Yuan had a sick sense of satisfaction from seeing you wallow in sorrow.

Again, he knows it's wrong. He knows that he shouldn't be delighted in seeing you suffer.

But that side of him loves the attention he thinks he deserves. The care that he's deprived of, the love that he's blatantly robbed of.

So, he eggs that anxiety in yours on more by talking about the past and the pain he went through, his eyes narrowing in an indescribable stare as your person gets hammered down more and more.

It was eating him alive. But he assures himself that this is just temporary. Once he felt satisfied, he will start fixing you up again good as new.

And, as your parents urged you to finally marry Jing Yuan, and you nodding in desperation to make it up to him more from the centuries of neglect as his lover, Jing Yuan apologizes in his mind once more, and holds you close.

Hello love, you certainly gave everyone a scare. They're all just thrilled to see you safe and sound. As for this latest little game of yours, thank the stars it's over. Did you have fun? Did you get everything out of your system? Good, good. Everyone is so relieved. Welcome home, Y/n. -Jing Yuan

(Original, unedited quote from White Diamond in Steven Universe)

[mercurysmaelstrom]

Bite the Hand

pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Knight!Reader

summary: Labelled as a kinslayer, you flee from your city, finding solace in a seaside town. Years later, Gwayne Hightower, an old friend whose house is allied with your own, comes in search for you now that your house is in need of a new head.

or

Gwayne looks for you in hopes of rekindling the relationship you ran away from.

contains: angst, smut (18+), no use of y/n.

word count: 3.1k

notes: this is for my service tops. reader is gender neutral. also reader is more of an ex-knight. happy reading!

You poured a tankard of ale into your cup as your crew conversed.

Your table sat all the way in a far corner of the wharf-side tavern, a booth you swiftly suggested when you and your fellow dock workers first arrived. With the full room in view, your eyes glided along the area, observing the several port laborers and merchants—most of them rowdy men, as to be expected.

You took notice of the tavern waitress and the blank expression on her face as the very same men harassed her, indicating that she was used to it. Thus, the next time she approached your booth, you flipped a gold coin in her direction, following it with a small nod as her eyes briefly widened at you.

She smiled tightly, grateful, yet confused, then walked away when she realized you had no intention of asking for anything.

“How gracious of you,” you heard a voice in the booth behind you, the one spot out of your line of sight.

The soft look you’d presented to the waitress hardened once you recognized who the voice belonged to.

You continued to look forward as you spoke. “What are you doing here?”

Gwayne Hightower slurped the rest of his wine before returning his cup to the table. “I could ask the same of you. Your house is missing an heir.”

The redhead wasn’t worried about being heard. The myriad of voices in the room easily flushed out his own, including yours.

You snorted. “If that were true, I would have claimed it long ago.” You took another swig of your ale. “My father was not particularly keen on passing it on to me.”

“Perhaps I need to speak more bluntly.” He leaned closer to you. “I would not be here if your father were not desperate for his heir. Age has caught up to him.”

Finally, you turned toward him with a furrow in your brows, seeing the face of a childhood companion. No cloak hid his armor, not that anyone paid him any mind. Many knights came and went in this town.

“The Stranger has taken him?” Was it relief or grief you were feeling? You weren’t sure.

“Not yet,” Gwayne answered. “But he is weak.”

You turned away, wretched memories furiously swimming their way to the surface. Even after all these years, the truth of your doing was not any easier to accept. It mattered not if what you did was right or wrong. Guilt had a way of latching onto you and never letting go.

You stood up, your crewmates much too distracted with their beer-medicated laughter to notice you. You momentarily scanned the room before looking down at Gwayne you peered up at you expectantly.

“Let’s speak elsewhere.”

The two of you pushed past the cramped room, exiting the tavern and its slippery concrete floors. When you decided speaking outside a lively business would be reckless, Gwayne followed on foot with his horse by his side as you reluctantly led him to the small cottage you owned not far from the wharf.

“Have a seat,” you told him once the two of you escaped the cold wind of the coast, entering your home.

While you decloaked, Gwayne unsheathed his sword, laying it on the gray wooden table you had handcrafted yourself.

The moon beamed through the kitchen window, enough to help you see where you were going as you headed for the makeshift altar you had set above the fireplace, lighting a few of the candles you used more for reading than praying, although your first year in this town mustered more prayers from you than your life in Ecraen altogether.

You occupied your focus on the hearth below as Gwayne removed his pauldron and arm braces, the metal clanking against the table until he was left clad in a dark green gambeson and leg armor. He did not sit after, but instead roamed curiously around the small kitchen dining room, examining nothing of importance.

“This place—no one’s suspicious of your ownership?”

You stoked the now-crackling fire. “No one’s been here. Except you.”

Gwayne cleared his throat, remembering why he was here in the first place. “As I said, your father needs an heir.”

Your brow twitched. “What of my cousin?”

“You truly believe your father would rather his brother’s son become head of your family house? Regardless of your…” he paused for a moment, treading lightly as he looked out the window, “familial matters and, of course, his pride, he would rather foresee his own.”

“My cousin should be of age in a year,” you disregarded his answer.

“I do not trust that your father has a year.”

“Hm.”

Gwayne turned to face you, your back still in his direction. “Are you not even the least bit eager to claim your position?”

You sighed, setting down the stoker and facing the Hightower. “I am not fond of the reasoning, no. And even in Ecraen, I failed to see my father glance at me for consideration. And now he’s old. And gray. And desperate for the spare he cared not for all those years ago.” Now that Gwayne was in front of you, your mouth regrettably couldn’t stop running. “And you: why even send you? Of all people in my family- oh, unless the dishonor of the kinslayer was all too much, they had to send a Hightower instead.”

“You know I am much more than that,” Gwayne gruffly retaliated, taking a step forward. You could see he had lost his patience. “I was your companion, was I not?”

You swallowed.

“Before you left. Without a word. Not a whisper, nor a note.” He took another step forward. “We were close, you and I.”

Recollections of breathless sparring lessons between you and Gwayne when you were only squires ran through your mind—wooden swords clacking roughly against each other before you graduated to the sharp clangs of iron. You remembered joining your cups together, laughing with fellow young knights. And you remembered the redhead taking your lips with his own behind a tavern in Oldtown after more than enough drinks, drunk yet chaste.

Then you remembered his lack of remembrance for that kiss.

You never blamed him for it, though you certainly never reminded him either, even as you endured the heartache before disappearing.

You tore your eyes away from him, anxious to face the flame again. “I fear you may have wasted your journey here.”

Before you knew it, the knight had made his way closer, only an arm’s reach away.

“If you think I’ve traveled all this way simply on your father’s volition, you are mistaken,” replied Gwayne.

His gaze flustered you just as he did in your youth. And you loathed it; honeyed words that never meant what you shamefully hoped they meant.

With that, you sidestepped from him and the hearth, positioning your body to catch sight of him through the edge of your eye as you busied yourself with needlessly adjusting the tapestry of the seven-pointed star.

You were never heavily spiritual, not really. Neither was your father. Your mother was a different story. But time alone in this coastal town eventually pushed you toward the Faith.

You spoke again, your voice weaker than intended: “What other reason would you have for being here?”

“I came to see an old friend,” he answered earnestly.

An old friend.

You continued to fidget with the wool. “Alright then. You’ve seen me. You’ve spoken about my father; my house needs a new head? They can find that in cousin Alren. You’ve done what you needed, you may leave now.”

The knight’s lips parted at the haste of your words, his head tilting before his mouth closed. He moved close to the furnace, staring into the swirling fire.

Gwayne chuckled humorlessly. “Is that all?”

You could no longer see him, your back once again faced to him. You didn’t know how to feel. In this moment, you weren’t certain if you truly wanted him far away from you. Not when a part of you itched for the opposite.

“I have a life here, Gwayne,” you said, your focus still on the dimly lit tapestry.

He scoffed, his focus still on the flame. “And what life is that? Port labor? Drinks with a crew whom you hardly acknowledge? Days with no one but yourself?”

Gwayne lifted his head to see the seven candles above the hearth.

He knew your relationship with the Faith lacked stability. Frankly, he could not recall your faith being firm enough to see you in a sept, much less creating an altar for yourself, an attempt at one that is. Seeing one here made him wonder how desperate you were for the company of another that you seemed to have finally leaned on the presence of the incorporeal.

You sniffed. “‘Tis better than a life of shame.”

He spun his incredulous gaze to the back of your head. “Shame was your punishment in Ecraed. Yet you’ve told me no one has been in this sullen home of yours before me. Do you not see how you’ve isolated yourself? You traveled far to distance yourself from shame only to carry the damned thing with you all the way here!”

Frustrated, he furthered himself from you, drawing closer to the dining table with a hand on his hip and the other wiping down his mouth.

He tittered, eyeing the floor. “Better than a life of shame.”

“Do not mock me,” you spoke gutturally over your shoulder, dropping your hand from the tapestry.

“‘Tis but a repetition of your own words.”

The fire sputtered, its sizzling hum filling the room when you had nothing else to say, because as much as you hated to admit it, Gwayne was right, and all you could do was sit with the hard truth.

You glanced up at the seven-pointed star, embarrassed. Ashamed. Always ashamed.

Fuck, it was exhausting. Most of all, it was distracting.

You heaved out a sigh and looked to see the side of Gwayne’s face. The flame warmly flickered on his skin. You hadn’t taken the time to process how much older he had become since you last saw him.

Your stare broke when Gwayne turned suddenly, his face out of view as he went to retrieve his armor.

In fact, he wasn’t sure why he removed it in the first place.

“Mayhaps…you were right. I’ve done what was needed.” He lifted the pauldron over his head, proceeding with the rest of his protective plates. “Now I shall take my leave. Send a raven if you’ve changed your mind.”

“Gwayne.” You took a step toward him. Regret quickly seeped into you like venom from a snake.

“You live your shameless life hiding in this town.” He worked on his arm braces, moving much too fast to buckle smoothly. “And I will journey back to Ecraen.”

Your feet moved faster than you could think—you grasped his forearm. “Don’t.”

He tried to pull out of your hold, but you remained firm, pulling him toward you. Again, he tried to pull away until you confessed, “You’re right!” putting his movement to a halt. “You’re right. I know not how to live without shame.”

Gwayne’s body stilled. He only looked at you with sternness on his face.

Your eyes flickered between each of his, seizing his braced arm in anticipation that he would leave at any moment.

“Even before my brother fell from my sword,” you carried on almost hurriedly, “I knew shame all too well. But that is no excuse for how I’ve…for how I’ve treated you, I-I see that now. But you must understand, I was young; tunnel-visioned. I could only see so much, and all I could truly see…” you peered at your hand on his relenting arm, “was my own guilt—the disappointment I brought to my house.” Then you peered back up into his eyes, blue with tinges of orange that gleamed from the hearth. “I am truly sorry I did not see you.”

Gwayne didn’t move as he took in your confession; your realization.

In retrospect, he understood why you left. He understood the weight of your crime, and he understood why you did what you did. He recognized why you left your house and Ecraen; he recognized why you broke your knightly vows.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t understand how you left him, as selfish as it sounded. At least not at the time. But seeing crinkle in your brows and hearing the desperation in your voice, he realized that mayhaps he had been thinking too much of himself as well.

Gwayne looked down at the small space shared between the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“You’re sorry,” he murmured.

You angled your head to see Gwayne’s face and moved your hand from his forearm to his elbow. “I am.”

His eyes glided to your hand. This close, the redhead could smell saltwater off of you, a scent you lacked in Ecraen. He did not mind it.

He swallowed. “I suppose…I did not see you either.” He raised his head and your own followed as he returned his gaze on you. “And it seems I am not the only one in need of an apology.”

You scoffed softly. “I don't believe I want an apology.”

“What is it that you want then?” Gwayne whispered.

With no words left to say, you took hold of the back of his neck and pulled him in, pressing your lips onto his. Despite the small pause of shock, Gwayne didn’t fail to reciprocate. Both of his hands shot for the sides of your face as he inhaled, breathing you in.

Gwayne consumed you, chasing for a flavor he hadn’t remembered lingered on his tongue. The taste of your lips rang bells of familiarity, and even lost in your touch, he hazily wondered why that was.

Ignorant of what occurred in Gwayne’s mind, you took in the feel of him, remembering what you thought you had long forgotten.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and he parted his lips, allowing your tongue to enter. His allowance didn’t end there. It didn’t end when you guided him to the table and it didn’t end when you started to remove his armor all over again, sneaking in kiss after kiss as you pulled the pauldron over his head. You lowered it to the ground as Gwayne unbuckled his gambeson, revealing a beige tunic beneath.

You returned to kiss him again, laying a hand on his hip before hesitantly sliding it toward his groin.

You pulled away again. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” Gwayne answered breathlessly, chasing for your lips again.

A muffled moan escaped his mouth when you cupped him, trailing your lips to his jaw and down his neck, snaking a hand under his pants. Gwayne murmured your name groggily as you grabbed hold of his stiff cock, rubbing up and down, feeling him out. Then you pulled your lips away from his neck and lowered his pants, the knight intently watching you. He continued to watch when you spat in your hand and grabbed him once again, and in response, a whimper released from the back of his throat.

You stared back at him, reveling at the sight of his mouth parting wordlessly as you rubbed your thumb over his leaking tip. You enjoyed having him here, eager for your touch; his member in your hand as he gazed at you with so much anticipation. Equally as eager to please him, you moved your fist up and down his length, slowly first, just to witness him writhe.

You didn’t fail to notice his hand tightly holding on to the edge of the table, his body more sensitive than you expected, presumably from his days on the road.

He dropped his head between your neck and shoulder. “Please.”

You couldn’t help but place your hand on the back of his head, lightly tugging at his red hair while you quickened the pace. You hadn’t expected to hear the vulnerable whimpers from a man you’d seen in battle, killing men left and right, especially when you twisted your hand near the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me you're nearly there already?” You teased him, smearing pre-cum along his length to help lubricate him even more, earning more profanities from his tongue.

A subtle smile appeared on his lips, though you couldn’t see it. “No time for sex.”

Your pace began to slow, hoping to prolong this moment with him. “I don’t recall you taking a vow of chastity in Oldtown.”

“Don’t…”

“Mm?”

“Don’t…don’t slow down.”

You tilted your head. “Look at me and I’ll do as you say.”

Gwayne obeyed, lifting his head with no reluctance.

Your hand snaked around to his face, and you patted his flushed cheek. “There we go,” you told him, keeping your hand on his jaw as your other hand jerked him faster. “There we go, Gwayne.”

Soon after you spoke, he grunted.

You licked your lips as you watched him squeeze his eyes shut, his mouth wide open as he came. Simply listening to him—gods, the sound of him, you never wanted it to stop. And so you kept rubbing, milking him of all his worth.

“Shit.” Gwayne’s body squirmed, but you continued, dropping your other hand on the table beside him.

As smooth as your hand moved, from your spit or his own bodily fluids, there was something about the calluses on your palm that added to the sensation; calluses that stemmed from the hilt of your sword. Feeling that you still had them, somewhere in Gwayne’s disheveled mind, he put together that you hadn’t put down the sword completely.

Memories of you swinging your sword almost sent him over the edge again right then and there.

“Want me to stop?” You leaned in. “I can stop.”

There was a smugness in your tone that took him back to your sparring lessons; you used to ask him the same thing when he seemed too tired to fight back.

“No, don’t.” He lifted his head to the ceiling. “Keep going,” he requested and you listened.

You could feel your hand start to cramp, but you ignored it, too enthralled by Gwayne moaning your name. You kissed his neck initially, then sucked, smoothing over newfound bruises on his skin with your tongue before he lowered his head, impatient to claim your lips right as he came again, light splatters of additional cum inevitably landing on your fingers and pants.

You pulled your lips away, your body still pressed against his as you snickered. Gwayne’s forehead landed on your shoulder again as he came back down to earth.

You caressed the back of his neck. “Feeling alright?”

Gwayne hummed, lifting his head back up, still somewhat high from your cramped hand.

“Interested in me returning the favor?” He tugged at the hem of your trousers.

“Very.”

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 88 (Bringing Home a Ghost)

After Ghost Night ended at the Salty Paw, Heather, Conrad, and their new friend Felix Psyded left Fisherman's Wharf and returned to their home on Sable Square. Heather entered first, finding Hazel on the sofa watching TV. "Hey, how were the kids tonight?"

"They were great! Ashy said you guys usually read him two bedtime stories but he fell asleep after the first one, and Lava hasn't woken up since I put her to bed. I got to watch Moonlight Massacre after all! How was your night?"

"It was nice! We went looking for a man we didn't find, but we met someone else while we were there..."

Conrad walked inside the front door as Felix floated in behind him. Heather stood, and Hazel looked up from her phone in quiet awe. "Felix Psyded, Esquire. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss."

"Hazel Moody-Nesbitt," she replied. "Heather's cooler younger sister. You're, like, really a ghost!"

"Since 1915." He warmly tipped his bowler hat. "May I say, you're stunning like your sister."

"You may say! But I'm married."

"Of course the lovely Nesbitt women would all be spoken for. Though I hope your husband is friendlier than Sargent Gordon."

Hazel laughed. "My wife is sweet, but Conrad's great! Are you the one guy in the world he doesn't get along with?"

Heather sighed, sliding over to make room for Conrad on the sofa. "They got off on the wrong foot."

"Well, why'd you bring him home? I know you love strays, but I didn't think that meant sims who've been dead for over a century!"

"They've promised me a plate of ambrosia in exchange for my services."

Hazel gaped. "When you guys said you were doing this challenge I just thought it was, like, a team building exercise. I didn't think you were really going to resurrect anybody!"

Heather shrugged. "Well, why shouldn't we? We went through all that to learn how to do it, so we might as well help someone with unfinished business while we're at it."

"So is that it, then? No one dies, they just get to live again with ambrosia?"

"Not everyone's unfinished business is to live again. Some die so old, with bodies so used and broken, living again isn't worth it. Even some of the younger ones. Everyone is different and fascinating in their own way, which is why I took to studying ghosts and their stories in the first place."

"He's going to help us figure out if Conrad met a ghost out on Deadgrass Isle."

Hazel grinned as Conrad stood to shoo one of their chickens back outside. "You're fighting crime by day and paranormal activity by night? Holly was right, Conrad. You're basically a superhero."

He blushed, and Felix turned a dour look in his direction. Ending the tense conversation in the living room, Hazel left to return home.

Heather and Conrad left Felix on the sofa and headed to bed. But before they'd changed into pajamas, she blurted her question with concern. "What's going on with you? I've never seen you snappier with anyone than you were tonight with Felix. Like I brought home two ghosts tonight instead of one."

"He was kind of acting like a dick."

Heather nodded. "And you met him there. That's not like you. Is it George Brindleton again?"

"No, George has been quiet. He and his wife spend a lot of the winter in Sulani every year." He could see Heather found this insufficient and kept talking. "I'm just dealing with a lot. I know I wasn't really myself tonight. There's this one case I can't crack and it's making me a little crazy."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I do, but I can't say much about it."

"I know. Confidential. But I want to give you whatever you need to be able to keep your work life at work, and not take the stress home. Not even for me and the kids, because you're so good to us. That's not the issue. I'm worried about you, and I want you to talk to me. The night we got engaged, you promised you would always tell me how you're feeling."

Joining her on the bed, he held her hand against his chest. "When I've finally solved the case, I'll tell you everything. I promise."

She grinned. "Not every gory detail, I hope."

"Do I ever? I don't want to think about the case tonight. I don't want to think about the ghost in our living room. All I want to focus on the rest of the night is you."

They made love before Heather fell asleep in Conrad's arms, (at least temporarily) satisfied by their conversation. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: I debated whether or not to bring Felix Psyded and his lore into this generation because there's a university generation much, much later in this challenge, but Felix was the first ghost that showed up to Ghost Night, sat right next to them and was immediately enamoured with Heather. So my mind spun with a bunch of possibilities for him and I went for it, even though he's mentioned in urban legends for UBrite students and those obviously won't be canon to my timeline anymore.

The In Bloom challenge doesn't have anything related to Felix in the challenge rules, even in the university generation, and Reaper Rewards didn't even require use of the ambrosia Heather made. But I wasn't going to do all that and not fully finish what they started. They're not really the type to lure sims into a cowplant just to test whether ambrosia works, no one in my save needed to die and be brought back, and I have a plan now for Felix! @pixeldistractions mentioned a possible prequel flashback and I'll never say never, but setting up an early-20th Century photo save will take a while if I do it, so no promises. I am invested in him getting a happy ending to his second life, however!

[hannahbarberra162]

Struck Twice By Lightning

On Ao3 All Chapters

You married Shanks when you were both younger and in love. But life happened, you broke up, and you haven't been with him in years. You need him to divorce you to get your business started. He strikes a deal with you - but will you want to keep it? Or would you rather keep him?

AKA- second chance romance with Shanks.

I'm trying not to use Y/N, just "you," we'll see how it goes. Should be fluffy, maybe a touch on angst later on. No Uta, haven't seen the movie yet.

18+ MDNI

Struck Twice By Lightning

When you heard that a Yonko ship was docked at the main island, you rolled your eyes. Others on the island were happy, concerned, worried, excited, a myriad of emotions. Not you. You had a feeling about who the Yonko was. And you needed something that only he could give you. 

You lived a quiet life on a small island archipelago. The main island was where the majority of commerce and tourism were, but you lived on a small, lush, green nearby island that you loved. It was easy to travel between the islands - you didn’t even need a log pose. You’d been living there for a while, making money with your trade. You were satisfied with your life, and wanted to keep it that way. 

You did need to find a certain someone, so the fact that he had docked near your island was fortuitous. It saved you the time it would take to track him down. You decided just to get this over and done with, so you grabbed what you needed, and went to the small wharf. There would be plenty of boats and ferries going between the islands, you’d just catch the next one. Sure enough, you were able to pay for fare and be on your way in less than an hour. 

Landing at the main island, it didn’t take long to figure out where the pirates were. It was like the entire island had erupted into a party. There was music coming from every restaurant, every bar was open and full, and there was dancing in the street. It would have been nice, but you weren’t in the mood. You headed towards the biggest, loudest part of the party you could find, and sure enough, there were the Red Hair Pirates. You saw some familiar faces, some new ones, but not the one that you needed.

Finally, you saw a circle of people sitting around, talking and laughing. They were drinking heavily, telling tall tales trying to entertain the local women. You walked up to the circle and looked for your target. In walking towards everyone, you passed by an old friend. You reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

“Hi, Benn.”

“Hi, nice to see you,” Benn replied with a smile. Ever unflappable, he didn’t seem surprised you were there. 

“He’s here, right?”

“Just over there.”

“Thanks Benn. Happy you’re ok.”

“Likewise.”

With that you trudged over to your mark. You stood in front of him and said simply

“Shanks.”

Shanks, who had been laughing a moment before, looked as though he’d seen a ghost. After a moment, his face broke into a huge smile and he said “Buttercup, is it really you? Or have I been hallucinating again?”

“Don’t call me that. I need you to do something for me.”

“Come here! It’s been forever! Come sit by me and tell me everything that’s been going on.”

“No, Shanks. It’s not gonna be like that. I just need to talk to you.”

“So sit here and talk to me! We haven’t seen each other in so long, I wanna talk to you too…” Shanks continued to try to get you to sit next to him. Eventually, you did, just so you could tell him what you needed to. Shanks could be incredibly persistent when he wanted something, a trait you had not forgotten. 

A newer recruit, who hadn’t recognized you, asked “who is that? His ex-girlfriend or something?”

Benn sighed, took a drag of his cigarette, and replied “no, that’s his wife.”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Not Yours, Never Was

Pairing: Tom Bennett x nameless female character (third person perspective) Warnings: Angst. Jealousy. Violence. Eventual smut. Word count: ~4k

Summary: She's been friends with Tom since childhood. When he returns to Manchester, following his escape from France, they become something more. The problem with Tom is that he's never quite willing to define what "more" actually is. Based on this request.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Tom rolls off of her, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, as he gasps for breath. One arm snakes around her shoulders as she cuddles against his chest, while the other reaches for his cigarettes on the bedside table.

She basks in the closeness, a satisfying ache between her thighs, knowing the moment is almost at its end. She listens to the click of the lighter, inhaling softly through her nose as a waft of smoke fills her nostrils with its familiar scent.

Then come the words she's been dreading.

"You should probably push off home, love, Lois will be back soon." 

She nods, rising from the bed and beginning to dress. It's been this way ever since he came home.

Her and Tom had grown up living opposite each other on the same street. He'd teased her mercilessly, as boys will do to girls, but they'd always been friends. She'd felt sick with worry when he'd joined the navy, and her heart had broken when his father, Douglas, had told her he'd been reported as MIA in Dunkirk.

The day he'd returned to Castlefield had felt like a dream. He'd ducked in through the open back door while she was in the kitchen making tea and she'd dropped the teapot in shock when she caught sight of him. It had shattered upon the tiled floor, but it didn't seem to matter, not when he stood there with that lopsided smirk of his plastered across his gorgeous face.

Wordlessly they'd closed the gap, kissing each other hungrily, silent outpourings of I missed you expressed with every tender touch and caress.

From that point onwards they had seized every opportunity to be together. On the nights that her dad was on late shifts at the factory, she'd leave the lamp on for Tom in her bedroom window, a signal that it was safe for him to come up; her mum had always been a sound sleeper. In turn, she'd go to his house whenever Douglas and Lois weren't home.

She understood the need for privacy. Tom shared a room with his sister and she still lived with her parents, none of whom would appreciate them fornicating under the same roof. However, as the months had slipped by, it occurred to her that she and Tom had never actually been on a proper date, let alone been seen in public together.

"You know, Tommy," She says, as she finishes buttoning her blouse. "There's a dance at the Wharf on Saturday, to celebrate the rest of the troops coming home."

"Yeah, I saw," He replies, rubbing his brow and taking another drag of his cigarette. "My old man brought a leaflet home from his rounds the other day."

"Thought it might be nice if we went together?" She offers with a bright smile.

Tom's eyebrows raise as his eyes widen, and he exhales smoke through his nose. "Oh, I dunno about that, love. Probably not a good idea."

She feels her heart lurch and quickly looks away, not wanting him to see how badly his words have affected her. "Right. Well, I'll see you around."

She rises from the bed, walking towards the door, and he calls after her.

"Oi! No goodbye kiss then?"

Her hand pauses on the doorknob and she responds without turning to look back at him. "Probably not a good idea."

Once safely back in her own room, she swipes angrily at the tears she’s been fighting to hold back since she left Tom’s room.

They’d never established what their relationship was, the transition from friends to more than that had happened too suddenly for such a discussion to ever occur, but it hurt to know she was nothing more than an easy fuck to him. She’d known him all her life, so it wasn’t unreasonable for her to assume she meant something to him. But with a simple refusal of her offer to go to the dance together he’d proven she didn’t, perhaps she never had.

She wonders if it’s a case of him being ashamed to be seen with her, or that he simply doesn’t care for her enough to entertain her company outside of the bedroom. She isn’t sure which upsets her more, thinking about either causes a dull throb in her chest and a lump in her throat.

Pushing the thoughts away, she readies herself for her evening shift at The Oxnoble. The pub is surprisingly busy for a Wednesday evening when she arrives, but it’s been that way most evenings since the war ended, the mood is jubilant. She wishes she shared the sentiment. 

She deposits her coat and bag in the back room before moving between tables to collect the empties. After an hour or so of pulling pints and chatting to punters, she finds her spirits lifting. Work serves as a welcome distraction to thinking about Tom Bennett.

“Was wondering when you’d finally crack a smile.”

She looks up as she closes the till to see Joe Broughton leaning over the bar, his soft brown eyes focused on her.

“Sorry, my mind’s been elsewhere this evening.” She says apologetically. “What can I get you?”

He holds up his half finished lager. “I’m alright, actually. Just wanted to say hello. You going to the Wharf on Saturday?”

The smile fades from her face. “No, giving that a miss.”

Joe frowns. “Why? Ted won’t let you have the night off?”

She shakes her head. “No one to go with.”

“Go with me!” He says a little too enthusiastically, his face flushing with embarrassment when he realises how eager he sounds. “I mean…if you want to, that is. Seems a shame for a pretty girl like you to miss out.”

She’s not surprised by Joe’s offer. She has always suspected he’s sweet on her, but until now has been too wrapped up in Tom to pay any mind to him. Tom’s no longer in the picture though. Joe’s kind hearted, tall, dark and handsome, and clearly has no qualms about them being seen together. He is everything Tom’s not. She'd be foolish to turn him down, so she doesn’t.

“I’d love to.” She tells him.

Joe beams with happiness, draining his glass and sliding the empty across to her. “See you on Saturday then.” He grins. “Pick you up at seven?”

She nods, collecting his glass and returning his wave as he pushes through the crowd and out through the pub door.

When she gets home that night her mum is already asleep, and her dad’s at the factory working the late shift. Automatically, her hand moves to the lamp to switch it on and she has to stop herself. She deflates when she realises what she’s about to do, sinking heavily onto the edge of the bed. There’d be no more secret signals for Tom to climb in through the window, not anymore.

The next few days pass quietly, though she has to make a conscious effort not to think of Tom. She does her best not to look through the window to watch for when Lois and Douglas leave. That would usually be when she’d slip across the road and knock at the front door, giggling as he opens it and leans against the doorframe with a smirk. His blue eyes would rake over her, before beckoning her inside. Not anymore. She doesn’t see Tom at all, and her lamp stays firmly off for the rest of the week too.

She stands in front of the full length mirror in the hallway on Saturday evening, taking in her appearance. She’s applied a layer of rouge to her lips, carefully curled her lashes and set her hair into a style that doesn’t disrupt the work of the rollers that she’s been wearing for most of the day. Her blush pink dress accentuates her curves, nipping in at the waist, with an a-line skirt that stops at her mid thigh. The red of her heels matches the colour of her lips.

As she smooths her hands over her outfit, she can’t help but wonder what Tom would make of it. She has to remind herself that it’s another man that will appreciate the effort she’s made for this evening, and not him. She hates the way her heart sinks at the thought.

Joe’s eyes widen when he takes in the sight of her as she opens the door to him. “You look…wow…you look fantastic.”

She grins, grabbing her coat and stepping out onto the street beside him. “You don’t scrub up too badly yourself.” She says appreciatively, noticing his slicked back hair and starched shirt collar. 

The dance hall at the Wharf is packed by the time they arrive. Red, white and blue bunting hangs from the ceiling and a live band is in the middle of a Glenn Miller cover, with most people already paired off and dancing. Joe gets them both a drink, before leading her out to the centre of the floor.

As Joe spins and twirls her she can’t help but think about how wrong it all feels. The sensation of her hand in his, his palm at the dip of her waist, it’s so different to the way Tom touches her. Her skin doesn’t tingle in the wake of Joe’s fingertips brushing against it, her heart doesn’t flutter when she looks into his eyes. When he pulls her close his scent is unfamiliar, not the heady mixture of tobacco and spearmint that she’s come to know, to love.

Her breath hitches when she looks over and sees Tom through the crowd. The intensity of his stare is palpable even in the dimly lit hall, and fixed upon her and Joe. She doesn’t miss the way his jaw ticks as he looks at them. He’s made no effort, wearing the same jumper and slacks he always has on, yet still managing to look effortlessly handsome. It irritates her. She wonders who he’s here with and has to force herself to look away, not wanting to know, grimacing at the jealousy that blooms hot and acrid within her.

Focusing her attention back on the man she’s here with, she gazes up at him as the band switches to an instrumental cover of a Vera Lynn song. The atmosphere shifts considerably as the couples around them begin to slow dance.

Panic races through her, her mouth running dry and her heart thundering wildly as Joe starts to lean in. For a moment she is tempted to give in, a bid to forget about Tom once and for all, but at the last moment she decides she can’t. She doesn’t want to. She turns her head and Joe’s lips graze her cheek instead. As her eyes flicker upwards she notices that Tom has gone.

“Joe…do you think you could take me home? I’m not feeling well.” She says, not missing the disappointment that washes over his features.

The walk home is awkwardly silent and she’d feel bad for giving Joe false hope were it not for the fact that she can’t stop thinking about Tom, who he’s with and what he’s doing.

Her curiosity is sated when they reach her front door and she sees Tom burst out of his, moving across the road towards them with purpose.

It happens too quickly for her to comprehend fully, as Tom’s fist makes brutal impact with Joe’s face, knocking him backwards. “You kissed her! You fucking kissed her!” He shouts at him, and she feels fury well up inside of her.

Stepping between them, she shoves Tom away. “Stop it!”

“Why?!” He spits back angrily. “You shagging him too?!”

Her eyes well up as Tom’s words bite into her. She spares a glance at Joe, before speaking to him. “Would you mind leaving us, please? I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother.” He says stiffly, glaring at the pair of them before stalking off back down the street.

When she looks back at Tom, he appears sheepish, almost regretful, but she can’t find it in herself to forgive him. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of order…”

“No, you shouldn’t have!” She shouts back, her tears finally spilling over and rolling down her cheeks. “You had no right to do that. I’m not yours, I never was!”

His face softens, hurt flashing in his blue eyes, as he tries to speak. “Listen-”

“No, you listen!” She seethes tearfully. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be in love with someone that’s ashamed of you?! I can’t keep wasting my life, hoping one day I’ll be more than just a means for you to get your leg over. I don’t want to see you anymore, Tom. Leave me alone.”

She leaves him standing in the street as she goes inside, slamming the door behind her. She’s grateful that her parents aren’t home yet, otherwise she’d have copped an earful for the scene she’s just made in the middle of the road. Crying herself to sleep that night she curses her luck that she has to live opposite the man that’s broken her heart.

Her shift the next evening at The Oxnoble is quiet, most people have clearly opted for a night in after the dance the previous day. She’s grateful for it, feeling the furthest thing from being in the mood to smile at customers while she serves them drinks. She’s the only person behind the bar. The landlord, Ted, has taken advantage of the opportunity for a night off and left her with the keys, asking her to lock up come closing time. Save for a couple of older gentlemen nursing pints of bitter in the corner, the pub is empty.

She’s switching out the optic on a gin bottle when she hears the door swing open. Looking over her shoulder, she sighs, her mood instantly darkening when she sees Tom stroll in.

Propping himself on the bar, he eyes her nervously as she finishes what she’s doing and walks over to him.

“What d’you want?” She asks moodily.

“Need to speak to ya.” Comes his quiet response, long fingers flexing against the wooden surface.

“I’m working.”

“Can’t take a break?”

“Ted’s left me in charge. If you’re not here to drink then you need to leave.”

“Alright then.” He says with a shrug. “Pint of Guinness, please.”

She narrows her eyes in annoyance. “Tom, you don’t like Guinness, and it takes bloody ages to pour!”

“I know. Figured you’d spare me a few words while I wait.”

She rolls her eyes, taking a pint glass from the shelf above her head and placing it beneath the pump.

“Went to see Joe today, wanted to apologise and that, ya know, for smacking him…”

She looks up from the dark liquid that’s currently filling the glass. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, he’s got a right shiner.” He says with a grin. It disappears as quickly as it appears when he sees the angry look on her face. “Anyway, he told me nothing happened between you two. I know you said you never wanted to speak to me again, but I was hoping you’d hear me out, just this once?”

She purses her lips, topping off his pint as it settles and passing it to him. “Told you, I’m working.”

“I can wait.” He says, sliding coins across the bar to her and taking the glass.

She has to bite back a laugh as she watches him take a sip and wrinkle his nose. “Tastes like blood.” He mutters to himself, wandering off and taking a seat at a table directly opposite the bar.

Tom has never been a man of patience and she fully expects him to get bored after an hour and leave. She’s surprised when he continues to sit there, periodically lighting up cigarettes and wincing at every sip of the stout he’s nursing.

Three hours later she rings the bell for last orders and the few customers that had occupied the pub slowly shuffle their way out, leaving her and Tom alone. He’s only half way through his drink, having spent the entire evening pulling a face at every tiny mouthful.

She takes pity on him, bolting the doors and then leaning against the billiards table. “Go on then, I’m listening.”

He rises from his seat, walking slowly towards her, almost like he’s afraid that if he moves too quickly she’ll change her mind.

“Did you mean what you said? You’re in love with me?”

She feels heat rush to her cheeks and looks away. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? You don’t feel the same way.”

“Are you fucking joking?” He says, a tinge of irritation in his tone. “Would I have just sat for four hours choking down a pint of that shit, waiting for you to give me the time of day, if I wasn’t crazy about you? Give your head a wobble!”

She attempts to swallow around the lump that’s forming in her throat, her voice strained as she speaks. “We only meet up in secret and when I asked about the dance you said no. It feels like-”

“I’m ashamed of you?” He stands in front of her, brushing her hair away from her face. “Never. You mean everything to me. Thinking about coming home to you was all that got me through when I was laying in that hospital bed in Paris. Couldn’t bear the thought of you not knowing that you’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Then why?” Her voice cracks, her eyes are glassy as she stares up at him.

Tom draws in a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve never been worthy of you, love. I might have come back from France a hero, but what about when all that dies down and I go back to just being Tom Bennett, the lad that’s always in trouble with the coppers? What will people say about you, if they know I’m your fella? You don’t deserve that.”

“Shouldn’t that be for me to decide?”

“I know that now.” He says, leaning his forehead against hers “Last night, I knocked to ask you to go to the dance with me and when no one answered I figured you’d already be there. Wasn’t expecting to see you there with Joe and it pissed me off. I know that’s selfish, but you’re mine.”

He presses his lips to hers and she melts into it, her resolve crumbling with embarrassing rapidity as her mouth moves with his. Her fingers work their way into the softness of his dirty blonde hair as his tongue slips into her mouth, working against her own as his large hands cup her face.

“Mine.” He whispers as he pulls away, making her gasp as he presses hot, open mouthed kisses to her neck. “Does Joe make you feel this good?” He asks, working open the buttons of her blouse, slipping a hand inside to squeeze at her through her brassiere.

“No.” She whines. “Just you, Tommy, just you.”

“That’s what I thought.” He smirks, lifting her by the backs of legs to sit on the billiards table.

He captures her lips in another searing kiss, pushing her skirt up to her hips.

“N-not here, we can’t.” She whimpers, pulling back.

“Door’s locked, isn’t it?” He coos at her, pulling the gusset of her underwear to the side. “Christ, you’re soaking. Is all this for me?”

She bites her lip, feeling dizzy with arousal. “Yeah, just you.”

“You gonna let me have a taste?” His eyes lock with hers, the blue barely visible with how dilated his pupils are.

Before she has a chance to respond, he’s dropped to his knees in front of her, licking a wide stripe against her folds with the flat of his tongue.

She emits a strangled cry, her hands flying to the back of his head as he groans against her, the vibration of it causing her to clench around nothing.

“Sweetest little pussy I’ve ever had.” He whispers between kitten licks to her bud.

She bucks her hips against his face as he feasts upon her like a man starved, the cadence of her moans growing unsteady as a familiar tightness coils within her lower belly.

“You close, darlin’?” He smirks up at her.

She’s only able to respond with a nod of her head, too far gone to trust herself to speak.

“That’s too bad.” He says, pulling away. “Wanna be buried inside of ya when that happens.”

She feels like she could cry at the loss, and her fingers fumble in their hurry to get Tom’s belt and trousers open, as he works to open the wrapper of a sheath that he’s fished out of his pocket.

Tom’s jaw goes slack, his eyes screwing shut as he pushes inside of her and she swears he’s never looked more beautiful than he does right now. He stills against her once he’s bottomed out, composing himself.

“So fuckin’ tight. Whose are you?” He rasps against the shell of her ear.

“Yours.” She breathes, without hesitation.

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He snarls, grasping her hips and setting a punishing pace.

She leans back, bracing herself against the table with the palms of her hands. The green felt is coarse against her skin, and she knows she’ll have friction burn from it, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

The hold he has on her is iron clad, pulling her flush against him with every jerk of his pelvis, his face buried in the crook of her neck as his belt buckle knocks against the wood with every thrust. This forceful, commanding side of him is one she’s never seen before, but she loves every second.

The slap of Tom’s skin against hers echoes through the empty pub, his grunts of exertion mingling with her breathy moans. His hand leaves her hip to palm at her breast and she can tell he’s nearing his end when as he pace begins to falter, his jaw clenching.

“Play with yourself.” He grits out. “Need you to finish with me.”

Doing as she’s told, she places her hand between her legs, circling her pearl. The added sensation serves to intensify Tom’s movements inside of her and after a few hurried strokes she finds herself tensing around him as her climax builds.

“Oh, fuck, Tommy, I’m gonna-”

Her sentence is cut off as her peak crashes over her in white hot waves of intensity, barely registering it as Tom lets go with a groan, spilling inside of the condom.

They stay like that for a few moments, leaning heavily against each other. When he eventually pulls out, and they begin to redress, there’s a part of her that worries that this is the part where he’ll make an excuse and leave, and it’ll go back to how it’s always been.

He surprises her when he begins to move around the pub, collecting up the empty glasses.

“What else needs doing before I walk you home?” He asks.

She can’t help the warm smile that spreads across her face at the gesture. “Just the ash trays.” Comes her response.

His fingers interlock with hers as they walk home in comfortable silence, the darkness lit by the cherry red ember of the end of Tom’s cigarette.

“Leave the lamp on for you tomorrow?” She says softly, once they reach her front door.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Tomorrow I’m knocking the door and taking you on a proper date.”

She grins. “Oh really?”

“Oh yeah. Bag of chips and a bottle of pop, only the best for my girl.” He says with a wink, beginning to head off across the street.

“Oi!” She calls after him. “No kiss goodbye then?”

He chuckles, hurrying back to her and spinning her around in his arms as he kisses her, before setting her back down.

“I love you.” She whispers.

“And I love you, always have.” He tells her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

[bubble-tea-blossom]

The Soldier and the Smuggler

6. The Wharf

Joel Miller / f!reader, 5.2 k, 18+ ONLY

Warnings: kidnapping, violence, interrogation, suggestion of sexual servitude. Please head the warnings, this is a darker chapter

Previous chapter

“How long have you known?” The smuggler’s voice is raspy.

“For sure? Just now,” you admit. “But your voice felt…” you pause, trying to think of the right word, “familiar.”

The smuggler turns away, his eyes distant. He looks lost in thought.

“And?” You prompt him, rather impatiently, “what about you?”

He reaches behind him and pulls out your knife from his back pocket. He flicks it open, examining the blade, then the handle. His thumb circles a faded rust colored stain along the engraved handle.

“I recognized your knife.”

You are forced to remember that night. When he pulled your knife off the ground. The pool of blood reaching where it laid on the floor harmlessly after it had been knocked from your hand almost instantly. You remember the feeling of him pressing it back into your hands. You remember him scolding you for losing it.

“And?” You prompt again, your voice going sharp as your throat tightens, “does this change anything?”

There’s a moment when a look passes over the smuggler’s face. You feel yourself anticipating something, what you’re not sure.

Then he snaps your knife closed.

“No.”

You feel your naïve hope shatter. You shake your head like that will change what you heard, “What?”

The smuggler tucks your knife away back in his pocket, “It doesn’t change the fact that I need to get paid. Or that I’ll have a group of Fireflies on my ass if I don’t deliver. Sorry kid, just bad timing.”

The words hang in the air between you two, tense like a pulled bowstring. Aunt May was right. All the good men died with the Outbreak.

His answer is too much for you to process right now. So you keep blundering on once you’ve recovered enough to speak, seeking any sort of control.

“What’s your name?” You demand. It’s a fair enough question, given your history with the man.

The smuggler just shakes his head.

Your brow arches in disbelief, “Really? You won’t tell me? But you know mine. How is that fair?” You ignore the irony in that.

“I don’t actually.”

“You don’t know my name?”

He shakes his head.

This throws you for a loop.

“Why? How?”

“They never game me names of who I was grabbing, and I never asked.”

You finish the unspoken part, “Makes it easier not to know.”

He doesn’t speak again but the look in his eye is answer enough.

A familiar flicker of defiance sparks in your gut. You for sure wouldn’t want to make this any easier on the bastard.

You look the man that saved your life dead in the eye, and tell him your name in spite. You watch him process this. He doesn’t look angry that you told him. He just looks, sad. You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as you.

Why couldn’t I have met you, in different circumstances?

You used to think about what you would say to your unknown saviour. What you could possibly do to thank him, to make things even, if that was ever possible. Guess you don’t have to worry about that anymore.

You feel a tidal wave of exhaustion hit you. You want to sleep. At this point, while the noose tightens ever hour, if there’s to be any chance of escape you need sleep. You rise from the floor, slowly as the head-rush darkens your vision for a moment.

The smuggler’s left brow raises when you walk up to him, where he sits in the middle of the couch.

You gesture to the far end of it, “Can you scoot?”

There’s a beat of silence before, “Excuse me?”

You feel unfazed as you stifle a yawn, “Can you move over so I can sit? If this is my last night, I don’t want to sleep on the floor.”

You’re being entirely candid. At this point, you know the worst he’ll do is tell you to fuck off. The smuggler just stares at you like he honestly has no idea how to handle this.

Finally, he sidles over to the opposite end. You feel his eyes on you while you sit down. You yawn again and let your head fall against the back, your legs tucking underneath you.

He sounds surprised, “You really aren’t afraid of me.”

“If you were gonna hurt me, you would have done so by now. You’re the coward, not the threat.”

You fold your arms over the arm rest and lay your head on top. After the last few days, the moth-eaten couch feels like a king-sized bed with feather pillows. Your eyes shut, and your breathing evens out. Your brain replays the sounds of that night all those years ago, making you sick to your stomach. You stuff it down, so far it’ll never see the light of day. And eventually, sleep does grace you.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

You’re asleep. The smuggler can tell by your breathing, and the way your eyes flutter behind your eyelids.

Admiration warms his chest when he thinks of your brazen idiocy. It’s rare these days, for people to talk to him the way you do.

In the silence, and privacy with you asleep, the smuggler thinks about you said earlier. What he said. It reminded him of a conversation he had many decades ago.

“How long have you known?”

The girl looked up at him with hurt in her eyes.

“I’m keeping it,” she snapped making sixteen year old Joel feel even more of a blundering idiot. That hadn’t been what he was asking it, besides that was her decision.

He tried again, desperately trying to keep his voice as non-judgmental as possible.

“Ok, I just want to know when you found out.”

The girl relaxed slightly, “For sure? Yesterday. I took a test a few weeks ago but it was too early to tell.”

Joel finally felt the surge of panic sweep through his body. This was real. He stood up from the bed where they sat and started pacing around her room.

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” He asks, looking out the window, the horizon helping stabilize him.

“I-I wasn’t sure, I-I was hoping it was nothing, I didn’t want to worry you.” the girl’s voice started to crack, and Joel finally looked at her again to realize she was crying. He rushed back to her side, sitting down beside her. He took her hand in his, and at his touch she leaned against him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through her tears.

Joel hushed her gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. If anyone should be sorry it’s him. Apparently losing his virginity when absolutely hammered wasn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done.

When her belly got too big to hide from her parents, they kicked her out. Joel hadn’t told anyone else yet until he showed up at his parent’s door, pregnant girlfriend in hand. He had expected the same treatment from his parents, his father especially had always been a pious man. Joel couldn’t keep track the number of times he’d been lashed for one sin or another. His father holding the belt in his right hand, the Bible in his left.

Joel half expected to be lashed again that night, but it never came. At sixteen, a father-to-be, his own father looked at him differently.

“You’re a man now,” he’d told Joel later that night, after the others had gone to bed, “And you are no longer a child.”

Joel nodded. He knew the next day he’d drop out of school and do what was needed.

“Do not seek absolution for your sins,” his father told him, “All you can do, is do right by her.”

• • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

When you wake up, you are surprised that you actually fell asleep. Deep enough that the lingering images of your dream stay with you for your first few waking moments.

Something about tight roping across a river. Under your feet, sleeping crocodiles as big as cars floating in the murky water. The only thing separating you and them, was a two-inch thick rope, and about a foot of air.

You had just fallen in, your limbs being torn from your body by the ancient predators, when a voice snapped you out of it.

“Its time, soldier.”

You slowly lift your heavy eyelids and see the blurry outline of the smuggler by the window. You blink the bleariness from your body and sit up, realizing you had completely taken over the couch.

When your boots hit the floor, the weight of it all returns. Sitting like a boulder in your gut, it takes considerable effort to rise. But you do, and only then does the smuggler look away from the window.

“Keep close.” He tells you, leading the way out the door.

He keeps to the backstreets, by the later afternoon sun, you know he’s leading you steadily east.

“How much are they paying,” you ask, keeping your head down when a lone male wanders into view. Judging by the slow stumbles, you’re guessing he’s drunk or heavily concussed. Either way, low threat level. And unfortunately, low-rescue potential. You know if you were to involve him, all that would result is another person getting hurt because of you. At this point the only one coming to your rescue is yourself.

“A lot.” The smuggler speaks curtly, telling you with his tone to not even bother. But you have to at least try.

“You know I’ll pay double whatever they’re paying.”

The smuggler stops, looking around the alley like a rabbit looking for hawks, he doesn’t even look at you, “No offence lady, but you can’t.”

You frown. Ok, now he’s just being sassy.

Your heart starts to hammer against your ribs as the conversation goes where you thought it would. You’d prepared yourself, but still, you can’t believe what you were about to say.

You swallow your dry throat, “What if I have something, they can’t give you?”

The smuggler grabs both your shoulders and rushes you towards the wall, slamming your back against a doorway. All you have time to think is ‘Damn that was fast,’ before you hear it, the squeal of tires on gravel coming from the street ahead.

Judging by the relatively slow roll, and by the smuggler’s reaction, you’d wager all your money it’s a patrol vehicle. Maybe still combing the outer streets for whoever sneaked in through the South gate.

The smuggler is keeping his hips middle-school-dance distance from yours, but you’re still effectively being sandwiched against the door. You have no desire to be caught by the FEDRA patrol either, so you keep silent.

You turn your head as far to the side you can, trying to ignore the inescapable warmth and scent of the smuggler. You wait for an eternity, pointedly not looking at each other until the vehicle is finally gone.

The smuggler peels himself off you, checking the coast before nodding at you to return to his side.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say anything.” He tells you once you resume your walk.

You scoff, “Oh, so you’re ethical about that but not about kidnapping people?”

“Man’s gotta draw the line somewhere.”

You look up at him, taking in the scars on his face and neck, the grey starting to appear along his jaw, the lines around his eyes and mouth. Your eyes linger on the jagged scar on his temple, the size and shape look like it was from a bullet. Someone shot him in the head, and he survived. A man like that only lives this long because he’s more vicious than those trying to kill him.

“I doubt there’s many lines you haven’t crossed.”

Your words must surprise him somewhat because he slows, finally looking at you.

“Not that one.”

You were right about going east. You end up at the wharf, the smell of the ocean surrounding you. You pass by a few boats tied up by the docks. Most look rusted and broken down, maybe sitting there since the outbreak. But one catches your eye. It looks like it had been used recently. You know FEDRA owns most of the boats around these parts.

Maybe all hope hadn’t been lost.

There’s an abandoned factory by the docks. It looks older than the rest of what you’ve seen of the city. It might’ve been abandoned even before the Outbreak. Sure looks that way.

The smuggler makes a heading for it. You gather that this is the drop off spot. Your time with the smuggler is almost over. You know you should be relieved about that, but you’re not. In fact, you’re dreading the moment when he finally passes you off to whoever wanted you in the first place.

He stops. You watch with dread when he pulls out the rope again.

“You gotta be kidding me,” you groan, “why cut me loose all this time just to tie me up again?”

The smuggler takes your wrists and starts wrapping them while he answers with the same lack of care in his voice that directly contradicts the gentleness of his hands, “What they wanted.”

“You keep saying the Fireflies aren't going to hurt me, but does this seem indicative of that?”

He doesn't answer. You watch his hands loop the rope around your wrists, trying to avoid the skin that's been rubbed raw already. His fingers are purposeful as they create the knot, but not rough. His nails have dirt under them, just like yours. There's a nick in the nail of his right thumb.

With a final tug, he pulls the ropes tight but not as tight as before. In fact, given sufficient time, you could probably wiggle your way out.

You wonder if that’s his answer.

“Does this feel normal to you? Is this something you’ve done for the Fireflies before?” You ask.

“No, actually I usually do things like this for your gang.”

“FEDRA is not mine,” you grit your teeth, “I had no choice.”

“Lots'a people ain’t got no choice. You work with the cards you’d been dealt. And yours was soldier.”

“And your card was what? Low-life criminal?”

“Pretty sure we’re all criminals now.”

You huff. “Well, when you go to Hell, I'll be there to say, 'I told you so.'"

The smuggler almost smiles. It’s small, but it’s there.

The factory looks hollowed out. It looks like the perfect place for something to be hiding in. If you had a choice, you’d never step foot inside.The door is made of rusted metal. The hinges shriek like a woman being murdered when the smuggler opens it.

You linger outside.

“Let’s get this over with.” He keeps his voice low, like neither does he want to disturb whatever is waiting inside.

You take a slow inhale, giving yourself one last look at the ocean. Then you lift your foot, and place it inside.

The same feeling from a two days ago comes back, when you first left your van to go greet the smuggler. The feeling of stepping off the deep end. Of swimming over an abyss, colder water sucking you down.

The door slams shut behind you, echoing faintly.

You keep close to him, his wide shoulders giving a false sense of comfort while you do your best to hide behind them.

As terrifying as the smuggler is, you know what he is. The unknown is what’s killing you, of all the different ways things could get much worse without him.

Suddenly, a voice echos around the building like a gun shot.

“Halt.”

You watch in the distance where a figure steps out of the shadows. Several figures in fact.

One steps closer and closer while the others keep to the perimeter. You know there will be be others unseen. Circling you, cutting off exits.

Its what you were trained to do.

When he gets close enough, he lays his eyes on you, which narrow into pinpoints, his fingers twitching on the assault riffle in his hands.

“Who is that?”

Sometimes you hate being right all the time. You knew you weren’t the original target.

“The soldier at the location you told me to go," the smuggler responds, his voice is calm despite the palpable tension in the air.

The Firefly looks almost panicked but he doesn’t say anything else.

“She was supposed to be gagged.” The Firefly rebukes. His non-nonchalant tone emphasizes that you don’t matter, you’re a mistake. Mistakes get dealt with quickly in these types of businesses.

“The smuggler ignores the Firefly’s statement,“Where’s Tommy?”

“Tommy’s not here right now,” says the Firefly, “he's out west on an assignment for Marlene.”

“I talked with him four days ago, he said he’d be here.”

“Well, he’s not.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I see him.”

The Firefly sneers at the smuggler, “Wait as long as you like. But if you want to get paid, you need to hand over the merchandise.”

Your teeth grind so hard they creak, but you try to keep your face stoic. You aren't going to make this easy for any of them. You remain still, so does the smuggler.

The Firefly finally steps up, making a move to grab you, but the smuggler is still in the way.

"If you want to get paid, you need to step aside," says the Firefly.

There's enough charge in the air to rival a lightning storm. For a nanosecond, you let yourself believe that the smuggler is about to do something, take you away from here, come to his senses.

"What are your plans with her?" His voice rasps lower than usual.

"That is above your pay grade, my friend," says the Firefly, his tone encapsulating his joy in belittling the smuggler.

From your spot behind him, you watch the smuggler quarter turns his head to the side, as if he was going to look at you. You know its stupid, but you want him to. You want him to look at you. Maybe that will make him change his mind.

But he doesn't. Instead he takes a step to the side, giving just enough space for the Firefly to step up, shouldering his riffle to grab you by your wrist restraint.

The Firefly drags you away. You make yourself look at the smuggler one last time. You're surprised that he's not looking at the ground but looking right back at you.

There's something in his eyes. He looks…pissed.

And then the hood is thrown over your head, and the world turns to blackness and sound. The Firefly leads you far enough away you can no longer sense the smuggler's presence burning a hole through the back of your neck.

You trip when your boot smacks into something.

“Stairs," the Firefly grunts. You follow, tripping occasionally, winding up and up and up.

You expected to be panicking to the point of a heart attack, that or shitting your pants. You aren't. Your mind is strangely, blissfully, blank. You feel almost nothing as you follow your new captor.

A door creaks in the hallway where you're being lead. Your captor orders, "Sit."

You lower yourself until your ass hits a hard surface. You wonder if you're not scared shitless anymore because you've finally cracked or if your mind is just making your last hour as calm as it can.

You end up sitting there for a long time. It feels like hours, although if someone told you it was twenty minutes you would have believed them.

The image of the smuggler plays against your closed eyelids. His face, the last thing you saw. The shadowed armoured version from five years ago, sitting down with you, promising not to hurt you. You let yourself sink into the memory, drawing comfort from it.

More footsteps approach from the hallway, and once they get close enough, your guard steps away from your side.

The tension in the building when the smuggler brought you here tells you he's not completely safe either. You hope he gets out of this, if you can't.

Your hood is ripped off so suddenly the sunlight blinds you. Your face is grabbed while your eyes are still adjusting, all you can see is a shadowy figure in front of your face with their fingers digging into your cheeks in a possessive hold.

Your head is turned from left, then to right before its released. The figure steps back and what you see makes you blink again, maybe you’re starting to see things.

“Who. Is. This.” FEDRA Lieutenant General Gunner snarls slowly. Your eyes have fully adjusted and yes, that's him. The last person you were expecting to see. He’s not wearing his hat and medals like he is every other time you've seen him in assemblies. But you know that face, the mouth that gives tyrannical speeches, the cold eyes that sweep the crowd, sending chills through you if they ever land on you.

Someone pipes up from behind, “Its who the smuggler brought in. He said she was the only one there.”

You can see a couple of people have gathered, all waiting to see what will happen.

The Lieutenant General stares right through your pupil, down into your gut, like he can reach into your stomach and pull out whichever truth he wants.

You stare back. Your breathing speeds up. The calmness that had washed over you is gone. Searing heat flows to your fingers and toes and boils in your belly.

Anger.

You have a face now for who betrayed you.

But its more than that. Now you know who must die for you to be safe.

"State your name, soldier."

You raise your chin, remaining silent. Not so much in defiance but in fear of what they'll do to May once they know who you are.

After ten seconds, the Lieutenant General backhands you across the cheek. The sting of metal kisses your cheekbone.

You blink the tears away, "you hit like a bitch."

Gunner sighs heavily, "We will find out sooner or later, save yourself the pain and me my time."

You don't know why but you open your mouth and find yourself unable to close it, "You and I both know torture is an unreliable method of information extraction. Other methods such as bribery are statistically far more likely to yield the results you want."

Gunner punches out a single laugh, "You're suggesting to me, I bribe you? What do you want? Money? Whores? How about the next words out of your pretty mouth is your name and station and you get to keep all your teeth."

You feel your mind start to drift away again. This is real. The stories of this man you've heard tell you he will follow through with every single one of his threats. And yet, your mind distances itself from your body. You feel like you're watching this all from above your chair, watching someone else, from very far away.

You keep silent. You have to. If you don't, the likelihood that May sees the end of the week is almost as small as yours.

A man to the right of Gunner speaks, "The smuggler said she kept silent the entire time here, even when he roughed her up."

The Lieutenant General’s eyes flick across your face, taking in the beatings and swollen lip Alex from the smuggler hub gifted you.

"Where is he?" He growls.

The soldier dressed as a Firefly stutters briefly, "He's gone. We gave him the payment and he left."

Gunner takes his eyes off you for the first time since he ripped your hood off, rounding on the soldier. "You let him go?"

"He delivered the merchandise. I thought he was no longer needed."

"He delivered a mistake. Does she look like Sergeant Cohen to you?"

Your eyes widen. You know Sergeant Cohen. Daughter of General Cohen. Pieces of the fucked up puzzle start to fall into place.

You were set up. Pushed into a trap never meant for you. Because you're expendable.

You feel a tear run down your cheek, slipping off your chin. Luckily no one is looking at you at the moment.

The soldier who spoke remains silent, looking like he might pass out if the Lieutenant General stares at him any longer.

"Bruce," Gunner calls and a large soldier from the back of the little group steps forward. "Proceed as planned. Things are already in motion, there's no time for do-overs."

Gunner steps away from you as Bruce approaches, telling him as they pass, "Make her face unrecognizable. It might still work."

Your heart sinks. You aren't tied to the chair so you finally move. Springing to your feet and putting distance between you and Bruce. Looking around for anything, unfortunately you're in a bare, concrete room, the doorway blocked.

Gunner barely glances at you at your sudden movement. Exiting the room with a growl full of ire to the soldier that spoke of the smuggler, "You, come with me. I have a new mission for you."

Everyone leaves but Bruce and one other soldier who gives you a pitying glance, "I'll be outside. Don't take so long this time." he says before closing the door.

You feel a stillness in the air, and you prepare for your last fight.

You look Bruce in the eye. He’s got a handsome face littered with scars. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an object that glitters in the sunlight.

Brass knuckles. He slips them on with the ease of a seal slipping into water.

“Don’t you want a challenge?” You goad, “take my ropes off and I’ll give you one.”

He considers it, pausing his advance briefly, “Sorry bunny, don’t have time to play this time.”

You hold your ground until he makes his first swipe at you. You slip to the side and bolt for the door, getting your tied hands on it before you’re dragged back. Thrown to the ground, you roll out of the way before he can pin you down.

You manage to land a kick to his head while he’s standing back up. It staggers him for a second, and you leap on the opportunity.

You claw at his face, going for his eyes. It almost works.

He catches you when you get too close, and once he has a hold on you he never lets go.

You don’t last very long. He strikes you with the knuckles over and over. You feel your nose crunch and you turn your head to protect your face and your ear splits with his next strike.

Your eyes and mouth fill with blood, creating a red film over your vision.

There’s a sudden pause, you slur, “motherfucker,” and try to grab the hands that strike you.

You do manage to, but are quickly shaken off.

And then it stops. The soldier stands up, talking with someone. Your ears are ringing. You have no idea what they’re saying.

You’re left alone long enough that you try to stand again, but all you can manage is getting your torso off the ground on one shaking arm before you slip back down to the dust.

And then you’re being lifted off the ground. An arm slips around your shoulder and under your knees, you’re kept close to the man’s chest.

This is different. When he starts to speak to you, his voice is much deeper, speaking in a comforting tone.

This was definitely not the soldier.

You’re carried somewhere, you try your best to blink the blood from your eyes but your head is spinning too much to focus on anything anyway.

You’re put down, slowly before your thigh is stabbed with what feels like a very big needle. The muscle feeling tight with fluid as whatever it is rushes into you.

After about five seconds you feel it. A rush. A fucking tidal wave of adrenaline.

The ringing in your ears fades, and you hear him, “I need you here, with me. We gotta get you out of here.”

Your eyes fly open. They take a few seconds to focus, and your left is almost too swollen to see much but there he is. Kneeling over you, the smuggler has blood splashed all over the right side of his face, dripping down his neck, onto his shirt.

“Hey, you with me?” He asks you, wiping your brow of blood.

You nod, severely bewildered. “Smuggler?”

"It's Joel."

Joel. His name is Joel.

"What are you doing here?"

In one of the floors above you, an explosion go off, followed by screams.

“Saving you,” he says.

“I can. Hear that.” Speaking is hard with how fast your breaths are coming. You sit up, your heart feeling like it was going to explode too.

“You were right. They ain’t Fireflies,” he growls, taking a knife, your knife, and cutting your bonds.

You want to respond but are too preoccupied, clutching your chest and desperately trying not to fall into a panic attack.

“What. Did. You give me?” You huff out between small panicked breaths.

“It’s adrenaline.” His words certainly match the narrowing of your vision, the energy surging through your muscles. The beaten pulp of your face becomes insignificant when the rage combines with the external adrenaline, brewing a potent mix inside you.

The smuggler- Joel, makes you look at him with a hand against the side of your face, but focusing is hard, you hear him speak as if from far away, “If we both are gonna make it out of here, we’re gonna have to fight. The initial shock will pass in a minute.”

You ride out the initial adrenaline rush, Joel's hand on the back of your shoulder keeping you rooted. And when it no longer feels like you're about to die, the rage stays.

“I’m gonna kill that mother fucker.” You grit out, stumbling to your knees, intent on standing.

“We can do that later, first we need to survive. And we do that by getting the hell out of here.”

You know its true. And yet, there's such a huge part of you that's so angry, you don't even care that you'll die. You just want to hurt him, Gunner.

Then Joel says your name. Hearing it, being addressed like an actual person, not referred to as 'merchandise' or 'mistake' wakes up the remaining humanity in you. The part that wants to live, the part that deserves better.

You look at him, and when you do, he presses your knife back into your hand.

Your fingers curl around your possession once more. Parts of the old you, the you before all this, return to you.

You nod, "ok."

Relief shines across his face, "Ok, you good to shoot?" He asks, running two fingers across your brow again where blood is still steadily running. He manages to wipe away some, but it will be replaced in about thirty-seconds.

"So far, but I can't say how much longer I'm gonna be able to see," you gesture to your swelling left eye. Much more and it'll be swelled shut.

Joel nods, seeing for himself that there’s not much to be done for your black eye. Instead he rips a strip off his shirt. You keep still while he ties it around your head, pulling it so tight across the cut you have to bite your cheek to keep quiet. When he’s done, he drops his hands.

There’s a look in his eyes you haven’t seen before. Dark, and angry. You’d wager a guess Joel Miller doesn’t appreciate being made a fool anymore than you.

”Then let's not waste anymore time," says the smuggler.

A/N: They know each other's name finally, yay. Let me know what you think! Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

[yahoo201027]

Bug Truck/Store Next Door Running Gags: Season 14, Episode 8 - “Wharf, Me Worry?” (Air Date: November 26, 2023)

[eroticfriendfictions]

I’m pleasantly surprised that actually really enjoyed Wharf, Me Worry it was cute. What are your thoughts

It was alright. I liked the part with Teddy trying to take a picture where he doesn't look like a murderer and Big Bob carrying around the stuffed gorilla. It was probably one of the better episodes so far this season.

[br1ghtestlight]

i like amelia, cheaty cheaty bang bang and show mama from the grave more as s13 episodes than the plight before christmas though in terms of like..... rewatchability (<- i say having never rewatched amelia in full bcuz it makes me cry)